The Lion And The Lamb
by MB234
Summary: There's much more to Dr. Lecter than what meets the eye, of that you are sure. But then again, you're not the only one here with secrets. Will yours, and the promises they bear, lead to your doom or your salvation at the hands of Hannibal Lecter? That's the thing about lions and lambs, one is the prey and one is the predator. You weren't entirely sure which role you fulfilled.


"The stag at eve had drunk his fill  
Where danced the moon on Monan' rill  
And deep his midnight lair had made  
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade"  
– Lady of the Lake

* * *

There might be just the slightest chance that you were becoming a little bit enamored with your FBI mandated psychiatrist.

It wasn't just the way his impeccably tailored suits clung to his obviously robust body, or the tight stretch of his dark jacket that strained quite becomingly over his broad shoulders. It wasn't just the fall of his peppered hair across his handsome brow or the undeniably alluring bow of his full lips.

No, it was the culmination of all those things, combined with the powerful smolder of his dark gaze that seemed to bore through you as you sat, uncomfortable, on his plush, finely upholstered chair. He made you feel some kind of molten emotion that you couldn't describe, like a word that was on the tip of your tongue, or a dream that you couldn't quite remember once you'd woken up, the details slipping away like sand through your fingers. He made you curious and cautious, enraptured and enraged, pliant and passionate.

And this was only your second session.

A second hour of petulant silence, of Dr. Lecter asking questions that you just couldn't answer, of those dark eyes scanning you, as if they wanted to devour you whole. You could feel him assessing, measuring, like a farmer taking stock of his chattel, and on instinct you tried to deflect his curious prying's. You were actually starting to like him, to like the timbre of his voice and the atmosphere of this calming room, and you knew that once you opened yourself, once you spilled your innermost thoughts, you'd lose him just like all the other therapists that had come and gone. Another referral to add to the already burgeoning number of transfers. Another embarrassment to catalogue in your painful memories.

"You seem upset." The level tones of his voice were calming, as velvety and rich as butterscotch. The warmth of his voice flowing over you spurred you to consider telling him everything, to confide, and that dangerous, if momentary, slip of control annoyed you beyond compare. Suddenly you found your ire rising right alongside your temper.

"Oh yeah," You sassed, your tone biting as you crossed your arms over your sweater bedecked chest and scowled, "Did you need a doctorate in psychology to ascertain that?"

The heavy silence that followed your caustic words snuck slyly between the beats of your pounding heart, sending blood roaring through your veins, straight to the deep blush that was blooming hotly on your cheeks, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It was highly inappropriate." The wool of your admittedly short skirt bit at your stocking-clad legs, your discomfort and embarrassment causing you to re-cross your thighs, your gaze focused intently on your hands that lay folded in your lap. You'd put a little more effort into your appearance today, mostly due to the 6:00 appointment you were currently engaged in, though you rationalized away the extra primping with the justification that you were feeling better this week, lighter, less guilty. Less dark.

Silly, you knew, especially given that no matter how you looked the simple facts, that you were required to be here because of what you had seen, even though you weren't a full FBI agent but rather a special consultant that was occasionally brought on retainer, and that you could think of about twenty other places you'd be more comfortable right now, remained.

After a moment of pregnant silence the Doctor spoke again, that calming voice of his just as velvety as it always was, "It is quite alright. I encourage every facet within the range of emotions in here. Whatever you need to express, whatever you wish to enact, please feel free to do so."

Sudden, rampant fantasies played in your mind without warning, undeniably spurred by the subtle intention in his words, by the entendre that lay just beneath his lilting voice. You saw yourself bent over his desk, him pounding his hardened shaft expertly into your wet, trembling flesh, one of his large palms spread over your nape, pressing you firmly into his immaculate stationary; you saw your sex spread before him as he knelt between your thighs, his lips fanning hotly over your taught skin, his hands holding your limbs tightly in place, his iron grip unyielding as he teased his tongue just beyond where you needed it most.

Where the hell had those darkly carnal thoughts come from?

You were no stranger to bondage play, and in the past you had enjoyed many sexual relationships in which you and your partners explored each other's limits, boldly tracing the threshold between pleasure and pain, too much and too little, more than enough and not even close to satisfying. You were, however, an intensely private person, and though your tastes ran dark you preferred to keep them tucked away where the light of day, and curious colleagues, couldn't find them.

Besides, even though you enjoyed the sound of Dr. Lecter's voice and the gilded promises that glittered behind his shadowed eyes you had no intention of actually opening up to him. You planned to tell him what was necessary to pass this mandatory nonsensical protocol and be on your way, letting those pleasant, but unattainable fantasies remain dormant in your fertile mind, where they'd never come to fruition.

"Still, mockery is not the product of a strong mind," You said after a moment, imbuing your voice with a certain tone that could be interpreted as playful, "And I assure you Doctor, my mind is not weak." Your comment succeeded in coaxing just the barest upturn of the good doctor's pouty, sensual mouth, and your heart twisted suddenly in your chest in a fervent response that shocked you.

"Of that fact I have no doubts," He said in that calm, accented voice, his gaze never leaving yours, those dark, glinting orbs fixed wholly on you, "Just as I can tell that your will is equally strong, and at the present moment it is fixed upon utter secrecy."

You glanced away from him at those words, ceding to the silent challenge that had passed between you, floored by his correct read of you. So he was an observant psychiatrist then, a pariah in his field, a wolf among sheep. You'd have to be a more convincing liar then, let him think you're leveling with him.

"I know why I'm here Dr. Lecter," You said after sighing deeply and squaring your shoulders, "I saw some things, I did some things…" You trailed off, your brow furrowing as you realized you were having trouble talking about this. Before you let yourself consider the possibility that you might actually need this therapy, you internally shook yourself and refocused. "The FBI thinks that I need to talk to someone about these dark things that I have experienced."

"And do you disagree with them?" He asked, tilting his head as he spoke, as if he thought it was cute that you were rebelling against such a staunch authority.

"The Bureau is nothing if not thorough." You said, sighing and dipping your head as you contemplated exactly how and why you disagreed with the FBI. As you did so your hair fell like a curtain around your face, obscuring the decadently furnished room and its perplexing inhabitant from your view. For just a moment you could imagine that you weren't merely under the Doctors scrutiny but were here in this room that smelled like old books and a hint of red wine, topped off with an incredibly enticing musk that was all male, all Hannibal Lecter, just to enjoy the man's alluring presence.

"But I don't want anyone telling me how I feel," You finished finally, after a pause in which you firmly collected your wandering mind, raising your head to meet his gaze unflinchingly, "How I'm supposed to be 'doing'. That's my business and mine alone." The Doctor's lips upturned of their own volition at that show of your fiery spirit and a small, warm thrill skittered down your spine in response.

"I assure you that is not my aim. I am contracted by the FBI as an impartial and quiet psychiatrist, but above all else whatever you say to me will be protected and confidential. I will merely give the FBI a rudimentary assessment of your mental fitness, as they have requested. The details will stay between us. No matter how dirty they are." There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke, a hint of something heavy and palpable beneath the upturn of his smile, a flash of conniving excitement that caught your attention like the glint of a knifing the dark.

Of course he'd given you this speech already, during your first session, saying that you could confide in him, that you could open yourself fully to him, but it was at this moment, in the fifty-ninth minute of your second session, that you really started to believe him.

When he rose and began to gather his things, presumably for the end of the day, you realized that you'd been gazing at him for almost a full sixty seconds, lost in thought as you stared into the smoky orbs of his eyes, your gaze rapt as you tried to memorize the quirk of his knowing smile, the gentle fall of his peppered hair, the cut of his strong jaw.

Highly embarrassed, and more than a little aroused in every sense of the word, you cleared your throat and donned your coat hastily, intent on slipping out of the room without another word. Your head was already cluttered with half-imagined, heated glances, knowing grins and the promises they held; you didn't need any more innuendo clouding your judgement.

However, as you paused distractedly to sling your long discarded bag over your shoulder at the office doorway you were surprised to hear Dr. Lecter's voice warm at your back, close enough as not to break the socially acceptable touch barrier, but near enough to toe the limit between propriety and scandal.

"You should really wear your hair back, out of your face," His voice was soft yet firm, like the velvety antlers of a great stag. He'd moved near soundlessly, with all the grace of a great jungle cat that stalked its prey, "The eyes are, after all, the windows to the soul."

And you will bear your soul to me.

The sentiment hung unspoken in the air, but lay thick with supplicating invocation. You didn't dare breathe, not even between your heartbeats, as you hurried from Dr. Lecter's gargantuan presence, from his lilting words and thrumming gazes. No matter how hard you tried to shake it, for the rest of the day, and even into the remaining week, a sense of undeniable foresight clung to your back. Lecter was right, you realized; you would bear your soul to him.

And, inevitably, it would be glorious.


End file.
